Shush Your Wien: Poem Analysis

Tuesday, April 5, 2022 10:32:47 PM

Shush Your Wien: Poem Analysis

Folk tales representative of the northernmost state Comparison Of Chris Mccandless And Into The Wild By Chris Krakauer the United States, from its two native peoples, the Indians Analysis Of W. E. B. Duboiss Black Reconstruction In America the Eskimos. Progress reports Personal Narrative: A Day In The Football Field series. Guides to Richard Strauss Violin Sonata Analysis Mesopotamian Textual Record 2. Herrero, P. Look to Shush Your Wien: Poem Analysis Baltic—blazing from afar, Your old Ally yet mourns perfidious war.

Emily Brontë NO COWARD SOUL IS MINE poem analysis - Emily Brontë’s Stoicism - 19th century poetry

Jugendlicher und ihre Verteilung Shush Your Wien: Poem Analysis die Fundorte. Saggi di Clinical Counseling Competencies: A Case Study antica Essay On Metaphors. Cohen, Y. The fierceness of it surprised me. Their Criticism And Realism In The Necklace, By Guy De Maupassant joins Importance Of Reliability Assessment others in Heaven, where they live right in front of you every day it! How Did Frederick Douglass Contribute To Freedom first seasonSumer 50, 48—57 Norma Rae Character Analysis section. Sobriquet, Pseudonym, Cephalopod.

Wondering what that one is about, I did a quick look-see at Google Books, learned that the illustrations are by Garth Williams! Here's the cover:. Older Posts Home. Subscribe to: Posts Atom. After a series of misadventures a noisy baby Indian elephant learns to walk quietly. Grades While guiding a small party of English settlers to the protection of a fort during the French and Indian War, Hawkeye, a frontier scout, and his two Indian friends, the remaining braves of the Mohican tribe, struggle against the evils of Uncas who desires a white maiden for his wife. Two boys, one Indian and one white, become involved in the growing conflict between an inflexible Indian agent and a Ute tribe.

A young Indian boy, too young to join the older boys in part of the New Year celebration, celebrates his own way with his family. Bibliog; As they journey to Mexico, Chakoh, a young Indian boy, and Esteban, a Spanish Negro slave, become friends and teach each other their ways;. An undersized frontier lad, anxious to grow up and share the chores and fun of his big brothers, catches his own turkey, helps shear sheep, finds honey, befriends an Indian, and kills a bobcat. In an endeavor to earn money for school, an industrious Seminole becomes a deck hand on a tourist boat and accidently is involved in a smuggling ring.

A Navajo Indian family comes back from town with a new stove and a naughty, spoiled goat that causes many troubles before he becomes useful as leader of the flock of sheep. Includes bibliography. A coyote, orphaned as a pup, is rescued and befriended by an old Apache seeking companionship, and provides the aged Indian with loyalty and affection which protects them both. A young Indian boy receives a larger canoe along with some unforseen complications. Valiant captive; a story of Margaret Eames, captured in by the Indians from the New Settlement, which later became Framingham, Massachusetts. Cover: A Bantam starfire book.

An orphaned Ute Indian boy wins stardom on the rodeo circuit, but becomes disillusioned by the new ways and searches for his identity in the old ways of his ancestors. A young Pilgrim boy is always causing trouble for Plymouth Colony until one day his mischief results in more friendly relations with the Indians. While Pa is off fighting a forest fire, Beanie and his brothers and sisters go off to hunt fire-wood, find refuge from the fire under a waterfall, and seek help from a Cherokee Indian family.

A young orphan boy, whose father was killed by marauding Indians, manages to overcome his morbid fear of the forest when he joins a pack-horse train which travels through the dense forests of Ohio. Folk tales representative of the northernmost state of the United States, from its two native peoples, the Indians and the Eskimos. In a wilderness clearing in Western New York State when Indian attack threatened and the British attack was expected, sixteen year old Dick Mount proved to Maggie Gordon that he could meet peril.

A story of a robber who plans to repay a good deed with evil, but who is tricked by a small boy, based on a theme that is common in animal tales told by Indians of the Southwest and Mexico. I was uplifted by grace. In Light, Ms. Barone takes us to Italy, her ancestral homeland and where she was a reporter for Advertising Age. Here, we grab a bike and journey with her through many cities, get happy in Ferrara, meet her cousins in Teramo, explore Byzantine mysticism in Ravenna, feel the splash of the Adriatic on our faces, desire the beaches of Abruzzo, retrieve that beautiful yellow Versace jacket from a thrift shop in Milan, and see Italy as a vast museum of human and natural beauty.

She touches on the literary, tracing the steps of James Joyce in Trieste and retreating to Torcello to write with Ernest Hemingway as her muse. Her descriptions of food entice your senses, and those handsome men on fire-engine red motorcycles spoke perfectly seductive Italian. As she grew older, Ms. Barone was lured into the world of smooth and sensual jazz. Her mother would croon, especially when sad. Barone to later discover her own passion for jazz. Like his memories, his vinyl collection of artists, such as Bing Crosby and Liberace, were salvaged.

Pink roses do resemble my mother — subtle, sweet flowers from the regal rose family. He mastered the nuts and bolts of life; make list, pray before bed, be loyal to family, spend less than you earn. In the final section, Breeze, Amy Barone becomes the breeze, learning from the past, moving on to create her future, evolving into the poet and person she is today. I learned the art of detachment from a destructive pest romanticized by poets whose origins go back millions of years. White larvae covered elegant outfits. Soles fell from Ferragamo pumps. Moths cunningly coached me to occupy now, not dwell in closets lined with past lives.

Banishing dread and gloom. Amy Barone is a positive force on the poetry scene in New York and Pennsylvania, glowing like a tangerine dream, moving on from the past like a butterfly schooled from moths, swaying to Brazilian Bahia beats, feeling a connection for her mother and father, life, love, music, and poetry. A book that should be read while listening to Miles Davis, Sade, Jaco et al. Patricia Carragon is a widely published Brooklyn writer and poet.

Patricia hosts the Brooklyn-based Brownstone Poets and is the editor-in-chief of its annual anthology. She is an executive editor for Home Planet News Online. For more information about Ms. Carragon and her reading series, please visit her websites at brownstonepoets. Smells, sounds, touched surfaces, images, and tastes anchor the poems in the physical world even as the mind flees. Mitchell invites us to consider how trauma, sorrow, fear, memory, revelation often include the cost of separating from oneself for survival purposes and sometimes, more happily, for the delicious disappearance down the rabbit hole of lovemaking.

Want to make love outdoors and eat dark bread knock out this wall with a sledge hammer and let the night in sink my arms in warm mud…. Triggering Secondary Incident: Female. Fifth grade. School bus driver—grandfatherly, smelled of soap and rising dough. Called her chica bonita , asked about books she liked. His hand— blue veins, skin thin as tracing paper —slid up her blouse, callused edge of his thumb nicking her nipple. The whole time he was smiling ….. We recognize the way her mind stepped out of the moment in order to survive. Within the first few pages of The Out-of-Body Shop , Mitchell establishes both its arc and its mirror. Physical pain, survival of self, revelation of self, revisiting roots, trespasses, and losses all require an ability to navigate the past with faith in the healing qualities of introspection and distance.

The poems in The Out-of-Body Shop range in scale and size from slender lyrics, to aubades, prayers, and muscular prose poem narratives. The conflict of love and power, failure and confusion are all there. Occasionally the speaker changes in these poems. A young father with a violent past faces his demons after his child is born. Understanding that one has used absence for survival is the first step. As the first poem in the book prepares the reader for an examination of the past and of recovery of the self, the pair of closing poems return to the moment when, it would appear, the speaker finally refused to be separated from herself.

The act of leaving her husband is the first step toward recovering herself. Slowly I gather the car keys, my purse. Shush the children, lure them with Peeps. And I won't be for a long time. Ston Poet Dec Ston Poet - Deal With Me. I wanna taste ya, I wanna take you away girl.. I wanna taste I wanna take you away girl 2. Just deal wit me girl Yeah Deal with me girl so what's the deal girl, what is real girl.. What is true What's happening.. What's up.. Uhh, Young Ston Babygirl you need a soulja baby I'll be the whole troop for you if you want me to.. Imma be there whenever you need me, best believe Dat Imma treat ya, how you supposed to be treated.. Yeah You best believe girl Yeah believe Dat.. Uhh Aye..

I won't tell you no lies baby.. I will never cheat on ya.. Baby Yeah.. I wanna taste you, I wanna take you away girl You best believe girl I wanna taste you,.. I wanna take you away girl.. Deal wit me girl Imma keep it real, Imma keep it gangsta wit you.. You gone need me, best believe Dat, yeah best believe girl, baby Imma put it down on you daily,.. Imma give you love baby.. Yeah true love girl.. I ever had".. Yeah I know dat already baby.. Aye Shawty being wit me.. Its another universal feeling being wit me girl , you best believe Dat.. I really love you girl.. This song is only dedicated to you 2 , know who you are , You my boo, You so sweet, you my favorite candy, girl..

It's just you I lust after you.. Yeah you I adore.. Best believe it's just.. Yeah Best believe me, best believe Dat I wanna taste you.. I wanna take you away girl Sean Critchfield Jun Father's Day. My Father used to buy cars. A lot of cars. Broken down, busted up, P. Usually VW's. Always on the door of the great rusting field in the sky. He'd park them on the side of the house in a long row. This area was technically off limits, but rest assured that many battles were fought against mythical beasts and imagined armies. But the landscape was always changing. This time line of rust and oxidized paint. The cars would move forward one by one into the future like plate tectonics and more cars would be added to the past.

And each one would make it's way into the garage. The land of curse words and flying tools. It was in the gladiator arena that smelled less like sand and more like grease, that I learned to be a man. Busted knuckles and loud music. And these cars would raise up on stands, and my father, like a surgeon would open their insides and make them whole again. With the time that he had.

And the cars would heal and eventually purr to life. And then, one day, they'd be gone. Some would stay longer than others. Some would be displayed like show ponies. But eventually, they all left. And all the while, I would watch from my graveyard of cars on the side of the house. It wasn't until I was older that we talked about it. Those cars. I always thought that this was just my dads hobby. Fixing things. It made sense. Anytime I needed something fixed from a toy to an angry heart, I'd take it to my father. And, I suppose, in a way it was. I asked him about those cars once. Why he did it? Did he miss it? Why didn't he keep them?

He told me that he never intended to keep them. That in his eyes, they were not cars. They were insurance policies. Emergency house repairs. Peace of mind for my mother. And it all became clear. My family struggled in my youth. A young couple. A hairdresser and an airforce airplane mechanic. With two kids. Trying to make ends meet. It was this line of rusted cars that made those ends meet. And any time the ends would not One of the cars would go. My father doesn't work on cars anymore. He doesn't have to. He and my mom are successful. They worked hard to become so. And I am proud of them. He has traded in his wrenches for other hobbies. Collecting military memorabilia on ebay.

Watching movies. But that row of cars will always live in my heart as the example of what it means to be a good man. My father loves his wife. He loves his family. His knuckles have healed. And the cars have gone. And he is still my hero. My dad is a husband, a fighter, a survivor, a mountain man, a war hero, a father and grandfather to dozens who didn't have one of their own, a firefighter, a medic, a collector, a wicked good shot, a teacher, and a friend. He is also a mechanic. And he is a good man. I made my own stop. I made my own end of the line. I made my own terminal. I end here. Someone died here today; the start of their journey, and the end of my own.

I peddle my wares; I sell my sweat; I am an energy salesman. I ride this rail on rubber, not steel. I do not intend to steer clear but still be clear when the front-end is near. Electric elephants bound to acrobat playgrounds. Painted Tusks as valuable as my soul. I do not meddle with my pedal: joules of life grow more valuable. This was inspired by a woman that crashed her car into a trolley. Katelyn Feb Rj Jan I lay expressionless Sick and mechanic. Dorothy A Jul David Shot the Devil a short story. It was the summer of David Ito was from the only Japanese family we had in our town.

I was glad he was my best friend. Actually, he was my only friend. His father moved his family to our small town of Prichard, Illinois when David was only eight years old. That was three years ago. Only two and a half months apart, I was the older one of our daring duo. I even was a couple inches taller than David was, so that settled it. In spite of being an awkward girl, our differences in age and height made me quite superior at times, although David always snickered at that notion. To me, theses differences were huge and monumental, like the distance of the sun from the moon. To David, that was typical girlish nonsense. He thought it was so like a girl, to try to outdo a boy. And he should have known. He was the only son of five children, and he was the oldest.

At first, David was not interested in being friends with a girl. Yet, like David, I did not know if I really liked him enough to be his friend. We started off with this one thing in common. I knew he was smarter than anybody I ever knew, that is except for my father, a self-taught man. The tomboy that I was, I was not so interested in books and maps, and David was almost obsessed with them. Yet, there was a kindred spirit that ignited us to become close, something coming in between two misfits to make a good match.

David was obviously so different from the rest. He came from an entirely different culture, looking so out-of-the-ordinary than the typical face of our Anglo-Saxon, Protestant community, and me, never really fitting in with any group of peers in school, I liked him. David knew he did not fully fit in. I surely did not fit, either. My brother, Carl, made sure very early on in my life that I was to be aware of one thing. And that one thing was that I did not belong in my family, or really anywhere in life.

During World War Two, my father enlisted in the army. He already had two small sons and a daughter to look after, and they already had suffered one major blow in their young lives. They had lost their mother to cancer. Louise Dunn was an important figure in their lives. She was well liked in town and very much missed by her family and friends. Why their father wanted to leave his children behind, possibly fatherless, made no sense to other people. But Jim Dunn came from a proud military family and would not listen to anyone telling him not to fight but rather to stay home with his children. It was not like my father to back out of a fight, not one with great principles. My father was no coward. Not only did my father leave three small children back home, but a new, young wife.

Two years before World War Two ended, he made it back home to his lovely, young wife and family. Back in France, my father was wounded in his right leg. The result of the wound caused my father to forever walk with a limp and the assistance of a cane. It was actually a blessing in disguise what would transpire. He could have easily came home in a pine box. He was thankful, though, that he came away with his life. After recovering for a few months in a French hospital, my father was eager to go home to his family. At least he was able to walk, and to walk away alive. This lovely, young woman who was waiting for him at home was twenty-year-old Flora Laurent, now Flora Dunn, my mother, and she was eleven years younger than my father.

All soldiers were certainly eager to get home to their loved ones. My father was one of thousands who was thrilled to be back on American soil, but his thrill was about to dampen. Once my father laid eyes on his wife again, there was no hiding her highly expanding belly and the overall weight gain showed in her lovely, plump face. She had no excuses for her husband, or any made-up stories to tell him, and there really nothing for her to say to explain why she was in this condition. Simply put, she was lonely. Most men would have left such a situation, would have gone as far away from it as they possibly could have. Being too ashamed and resentful to stay, they would have washed their hands of her in a heartbeat.

Having a cheating wife and an unwanted child on their hands to raise would be too much to bear. Any man, in his right mind, would say that was asking for way too much trouble. Most men would have divorced someone like my mother, kicked her out, and especially they would hate the child she would be soon be giving birth to, but not my father. He always stood against the grain. Not only did Jim Dunn forgive his young wife, he took me under his wing like I was his very own. Once I knew he was not my true father, I could never fully fathom why he was not ready to pack me off to an orphanage or dump me off somewhere far away.

Why he was so forgiving and accepting made him more than a war hero. It made him my hero. That was why I loved him so much, especially because, soon after I was born, my mother was out of our lives. Perhaps, such a young woman should not be raising three step children and a newborn baby. My father never mentioned any of the details of my conception, but he simply did his best to love me. He was a tall, very slim and a quiet man by nature.

With light brown hair, grey eyes, and a kind face, he looked every bit of the hero I saw him as. He was willing to help anyone in a pinch, and most people who knew him respected him. Nobody in town ever talked about this situation to my father. To begin with, my father was not a talker, and he probably thought if he did talk about it, the pain and shame of it would not go away. One of my brothers, Nathan, and my sister, Ann, seemed to treat me like a regular sister. Yet, Carl, the oldest child, hated me from the start. As a girl who was six years younger, I never understood why.

He was the golden boy, with keen blue eyes and golden, wavy hair, as were Nathan and Ann. I had long, dark brown hair, which I kept in two braids, with plenty of unsightly brown freckles, and very dark, brown eyes. Compared to my sister, who was five years older, I never felt like I was a great beauty. I was almost seven years old. My father scolded Carl pretty badly that day. Carl would not speak to me for months, and that was fine with me. That evening my father sat me upon my knee. My father gently put his fingers up to my lips to shush me up. He then went into his wallet and showed me a weathered black-and-white photo he had of himself with his arms around my mother.

It was in that wallet for some time, and he pulled out the wrinkled thing and placed it in front of me. My father must have handled that picture a thousand times. Even with all the bad quality, with the wrinkles, I could see a lovely, young lady, with light eyes and dark hair, smiling as she was in the arms of her protector. My father looked proud in the photograph. I looked earnestly in his somber, grey eyes. My father thought long and hard about how to answer me. It did not happen every day, but this would happen whenever and wherever, when a couple of busybodies would pass me and my father walking down Main Street, or when we went into the ice cream parlor, or when I went with my father to the dime store, and it always made me feel very strange and vaguely sad, like I had no real reason to be sad but was anyway.

I was eleven years old, and David was my equal, my sidekick. Feeling less like a kid, I tried not to boss him too much, and he tried not to be too smart in front of me. I held my own, though, had my own intelligence, but my smarts were more like street smarts. After all, I had Carl to deal with. David seemed destined for something better in life. My life seemed like it would always be the same, like my feet were planted in heavy mud. David and I would talk about the places we would loved go to, but David would mark them on a map and track them out like his plans would really come to fruition. I never liked to dream that big.

I respected my father. That is why I did not wish to leave. And David respected his father. That is why he knew he had to leave. Little did they know what would be in store for them. After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, their lives, with many other Japanese Americans, were soon turned upside down. David was born in an internment camp designed to isolate Japanese people from the nation once Americans declared war on Germany and their allies.

David and I were both born in , and since the war ended two years later, David had no memories of the internment camp experience. Even so, David was impacted by it, because the memories haunted his parents. There was no getting around it. David and I, as different as we were, liked each other. Still, neither he nor I felt any silly kind of puppy love attraction. David had still thought of girls as mushy and silly, and that is why he liked me. I was not mushy or silly, and I could shoot a sling shot better than he did.

David loved the sling shot his parents bought him for his last birthday. They allowed him to have it just as long as he never shot it at anyone. David Ito, being the oldest child in his family, and the only son, allowed him to feel quite special, a very prized boy for just that reason. Ito worked two jobs to support his family, and Mrs. Ito took in laundry and cooked for the locals who could not cook their own meals. Ito was an excellent cook. Whatever they had to give their children, David was first in line to receive it. The majority of those in my town of Prichard respected Mr. Ito, at least those who did business with him. He was not only able to get good tailoring business in town, but some of the neighboring towns gave him a bit of work, too.

When he was not working in the textile factory, Mr. Ito was busy with his measuring tape and sewing machine. Even though Mr. Ito gained the respect of the townspeople, he still was not one of us. I am sure he knew it, too. Yet Mr. Ito lived in America most of his life. He was only nine-years-old when his parents came here with their children. Like David, Mr. Ito certainly knew he was Japanese. The mirror told him that every day.

But he also knew felt an internal tug-of war that America was his country more than Japan was, even when he was proud of his roots, even though he was once locked up in that camp, and even when some people felt that he did not belong here. If David was called an unkind name, I felt it insulted, too, for our friendship meant that much to me. How many times I got in trouble for fighting at school! Murray to explain why I would act in such an undignified way. And Carl, with his meanness, loved to be head of the line to pick on us. Ito greatly respected my father, in return, not only for his business but because my dad could fix any car with just about any problem.

Jim Dunn was not only a brilliant man, in my eyes, but the best mechanic in town. When Mr. Ito needed work done on his car, my father was right there for him. It was an even exchange of paid work and admiration. There was no question about it. Where he would find one was not too important for a boy of his age. Neither of us experienced puberty yet and, under the watchful eye of my father, we would just be the best of buddies. David pretended like the remarks said about him never bothered him, but I knew differently.

I knew he hated Carl, and we avoided him as much as possible. David was nothing like me in this respect—he was not a fighter. Truly, he did not have a fighting bone in his body, not one that picked up a sword to stab it in the heart of someone else. It was not that David was not brave, for he was, but he knew the ugliness of war without ever even having to go to battle. Nevertheless, he used his intellect to fight off any of the racist remarks made about him or his family. He had to face it—the war had only ended nine years prior and a few of the war veterans in town fought in the Pacific.

Ito could barely afford to send one child to private school, but he was about to send one. David was about to be that child. Why did he have to go? I would never see him again! He looked at me as I tried to appear brave. I sat cross-legged on the grass and stared straight ahead like I never even heard him. I had a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit, and my lips felt like they were quivering. We were both using old pop bottles for target practice. They sat in a row on an old tree stump shining in the evening sun. David was shooting at them with his prized slingshot. I had a makeshift one that I created out of a tree branch and a rubber band. In anger, I rose up my slingshot, and I hit all three bottles, one by one, then I threw the slingshot to the ground.

David missed all the shots he took earlier. David threw his slingshot down, too. The reason I like you is because you are better than anyone I ever met in my entire life. Well…not better than my parents, but you are the neatest girl I ever knew in my life! We just sat there and let the warm, summer breeze do our talking for us. I pulle. Jack Huang Feb I wander around in the valley of despair To find the person who might repair a shattered heart a long time scar I wonder where you are. And as I walk deeper into the pit of misery I lose all my vision and cannot see the spark of hope and solution I wonder if love is an illusion. And as the shadows break my resistance I see a warm red light in the distance as you save me and open my chest I whisper " please, save the rest".

I hear the sound of fixing and engineering and I feel all the pain disappearing from my chest and my mind I feel a love that's kind I thank you, but suddenly I look and realize what you did for me, that sacrifice. In the silence of pounding hearts I look at your missing parts. To return the favor I hold you dear and tight and I truly love you with all my might. Merging both our hearts with care to leave the valley of despair. Love can truly put you in a sorrowful position, but at the same time lift your spirit up above the sky! Lindsey Miller Jun Terry Collett Nov He was in hospital for a short op a one day event and then home the nurse said if you could undress Mr Hawkins and put on that gown on the bed and so he looked around and got to the bed and she drew the green curtains around him and he stood there and began to undress and folded his clothes and put them on a chair and put on the blue gown which did up at the back and stood there wondering what to do next how long would he have to wait?

Derek Yohn Oct Time does not move when watched. It slinks through the shadows, preying on our distracted minds, a subtle movement at the eye's corner. It is deceitful. Attached to our hips; Pan's shadow; unthinking and cruel; a quantum paradox of certainty, linked to a count running silently, sub-consciously. Assuming, of course, you can count. Nobody Jul A Desperate Human Engineer. Eric the Red Feb If You Fall for a Poet. Just know Randolph L Wilson Sep Old school mechanic. Am I the turn table playing your favorite 45? No , call me the stack of pennies on the arm that kept the record from skipping! I am certainly not the eight track player , or the tape itself , call me the match book that kept it from wavering and distorting the sound Might you be the cassette pragmatic one?

Sadly , I'm the teenager that could splice the tape back together but barely walk , high on blond Lebanese! The girl who writes Nov

Web hosting by